


The Beginning of the End

by E_J_Morgan



Series: Q-niverse AU [23]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Q is a Holmes, Teenage!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 03:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10208699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_J_Morgan/pseuds/E_J_Morgan
Summary: Q-niverse AU - The aftermath of 'The Fall' is hard on everyone. Especially on friends and family.





	

_Watching the happenings on St. Bart’s Hospital’s roof on the CCTV cameras was horrifying, even though Q knew of course in advance what would happen. He was prepared and it still took the strongest effort not to put a halt to the whole plan even before it could really begin. But he didn’t. He kept his calm and did his job as perfectly as Sherlock and Mycroft had done their respective parts._

_He doctored the recordings accordingly, making them show nothing more or less than what was needed to be seen on them. What they wanted the TV and newspapers to report and thus make the public believe._

_The first step went smooth and flawless._

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

The news travelled through the city with the speed of electricity in wires or lightning through the sky.

 

People talked in the subway, on the street, in the television, on the internet: ‘That fraud, Sherlock Holmes, had gone and killed himself!’, ‘He surely couldn’t take the shame of his lies finally being out; he rather chose death.’. Even complete strangers seemed to find the common topic now: the ‘Sherlock Holmes Scandal’ was the current top news. Q was sure that come tomorrow, every morning paper would be full of articles about ‘Poor Richard Brook killed by a lunatic man who then committed suicide by jumping down from St. Bart’s Hospital’s roof.’

 

The teenager had been monitoring the whole confrontation from inside his office behind locked doors; and as such he knew that everything had gone completely according to plan: James Moriarty was dead (really) and Sherlock had also died (fake). Also, the would-be snipers would be taken care of. He’d make sure of it. Poor John though… He shuddered at the thought of what the doctor must be feeling now, having witnessed his best friend’s suicide that – as far as he was concerned – was absolutely real and totally convincing.

 

Q sighed and sent an SMS to Mycroft, saying simply ‘It’s done. BH’. The reply was quick to arrive: ‘Very well. Proceed as agreed. MH’. There was no need to react to that in any way or ask for clarifications. All three of them knew their tasks and the importance of these. This time, there would be no second chances; this wasn’t a child’s game. A game it was, oh, yes. But a game for adults. Spies. Ruthless Killers. For the Holmes Brothers.

 

Someone had said to Q once that the three brothers could most definitely take over the world if they ever were to join forces to do it. The boy had replied back then that it would never be an issue, since they were just unable to work properly together. Well, now it had to change: they _would_ work together and they _would_ do it flawlessly.

 

The world would just have to learn to live with the consequences.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

Of course, everyone in HQ had heard the terrifying news too. How could they not have with all those agents among them who just seemed to attract intel like magnets?

 

So naturally, everyone had become instantly very worried about him and had hurried to his aid, hoping he hadn’t heard the sad story yet from some mocking reporter or read it on a blog along with the accusations and some people’s cruel delight about it.

 

When they found his door locked, they instantly knew the hope had been in vain.

 

“Q, please, son, open the door, that’s really something we should talk about… You don’t have to deal with that alone!” – Tried Tanner to get the boy to let him inside his office. He waited a few second for an answer and when it still hadn’t come, continued: - “Please, I don’t know what you heard or read but… let’s just talk! Please?”

 

Next, M came.

 

“My boy, please, let us in! We really don’t want you to be alone right now…” – He then just shrugged helplessly as one by one everyone else (Moneypenny, Madeleine, R, the agents…) tried to coax the boy into communicating with them or to at least acknowledge them in any way.

 

Everyone failed. Q didn’t have time and wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone right now, didn’t they understand? He had just lost one of his brothers after all (honestly: the knowledge that Sherlock was out there, completely alone and in constant danger almost felt like real grief to him so he knew he wouldn’t have to worry about faking it and keeping up the act in front of the others). He also had to set up the next few steps of their plan, namely getting Sherlock out of the country unnoticed by everyone and fly him to Switzerland where he would start his investigation right away. They didn’t have time to lose.

 

The kittens seemed to sense that something was going on, for they had curled up by his feet and were now lying there quietly; for once even Confetti completely calm. Pixel sometimes put one of her paws on his foot as if to reassure or comfort him. It was adorable.

 

“Thank you, girls.” – He said, petting both of them lovingly and the kittens purred contently. – “It’s great to know I can count on you.”

 

Fake IDs and other necessary documents ready, the youngest Holmes quickly sent a notification about it to Mycroft via their secured e-mail then promptly erased all the traces of what he had been doing. He knew Sherlock was going to spend the next few days safely tucked away in Holmes Manor, going over the plans again and again to make sure everything would work out in the end. Just until the funeral… his only wish had been to be able to stay in London for it to stand by John – even though the doctor of course wouldn’t know about it. Q wished his brother hadn’t asked for that: he himself had witnessed his own funeral several years ago (even if not personally being present just watching it on screen with the help of a hidden camera); it was not something he wished on anyone to have to live through. But, of course, it was not for him to decide.

 

His work done for now, he then took a deep breath, got up from his desk (the cats were playing in the far end of the office with their toy mouse again, apparently having decided that they’d had enough of brooding for the day) then walked over to the door and opened it, ready to face the audience he knew was waiting for him outside.

 

Just as suddenly and rather unexpectedly, he found himself lying on the floor, with Alec on top of him; the agent doing his best remaining at least partially sitting up, in order to not squash the tiny boy and also to be able to get up with as much elegance as possible in a situation like that.

 

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry, Q… I was just about to force the door open… ahm… well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Hey, are you all right?”

 

“I’m fine, Alec, I’m not that breakable, you know. Also, I would like to advise you not to try anything like that again: my door’s secured against every possible forms of attack and your shoulder would hurt for a long while afterwards.”

 

002 muttered ‘A warning would have been nice’ under his breath, hopping on one leg while 003 rubbed his left arm, occasionally wincing in pain. Bond whispered ‘Of course it would be protected, I knew it from the beginning’ to 008 who just rolled his eyes at him.

 

Meanwhile, Confetti and Pixel had joined them on the floor, sitting on Q’s chest, probably thinking this was some kind of a game their favorite humans were playing and didn’t want to be left out of the fun.

 

Alec blinked a few times.

 

“No, I meant… emotionally…”

 

“Oh…” – He let himself be pulled up by the embarrassed agent and into a comforting bear hug with the kittens dashing back into the office to conquer another of their imaginary enemies.

 

“I’m so sorry, kid.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

The others looked simultaneously relieved he had finally come out of his exile but also shook up and worried.

 

“I’m fine…” – He muttered, wiping his face. When did the tears start to fall? He hadn’t even realized… Damn, he seemed to be doing quite a lot of crying lately…

 

“Oh, Q!” – Now a sobbing Moneypenny was hugging him, making him feel uncomfortable. The three brothers had known of course they would be causing pain to a lot of people (especially John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Molly) but they hadn’t anticipated his MI6 friends to be so sad on _his_ behalf.

 

“My boy, I think you shouldn’t work now. But I also don’t want you to be home alone, so what do you say you go live with one of us for a while?”

 

“No, it’s okay, M. I just moved into my new apartment yesterday, I have a lot to do…”

 

“That’s exactly what you shouldn’t be doing right now! You’ll come to me!”

 

“Bill---“

 

“You can’t say no.” – That was such a simple but determined statement, it made him momentarily forget all his protests.

 

Thinking about it logically, Q knew he only had to start monitoring Sherlock further after the funeral, so he now had a few days which he really didn’t want to spend alone. He didn’t want to go to Holmes Manor either. Sherlock and him had already said their goodbyes the day before and the three of them spending a longer period of time together could be hazardous for their health… Mycroft and Sherlock would have a hard enough time trying not to kill each other between just the two of them anyway.

 

“All right. Thank you, Bill. But I don’t want to head out right away. Working helps…”

 

“Okay…” – He could tell neither of them liked the idea but they humored him. – “But please, tell me what that whole thing is about! You must have known something was coming. You hinted it when we were talking! Does that have something to do with the man who died as well? Is he the same who wanted to kill you as well?”

 

“He is the same but he didn’t actually want to kill me.”

 

“What do you call it if someone explodes your flat then?” – Asked 001 with confusion.

 

Q looked at him and shrugged.

 

“He wanted to send a message.”

 

“A _message_!?” – Shouted Bond. – “This is the 21th century! What about e-mail or SMS?” – He also looked like he wanted to say more but a sharp kick to his shin from Madeleine as soon as he had opened his mouth had him change his tactic to just shaking his head in exasperation instead.

 

“My boy, if you need anything…” – Began M, looking lost.

 

“I know. Thanks again.”

 

“You do know that we believe in your brother, right?” – Blurted out suddenly 005, sounding absolutely sure and determined. – “We may only have met him once but we know you and we know you couldn’t be fooled. If you say he wasn’t a fraud then he wasn’t.”

 

“He wasn’t. And Richard Brook was a fake name. In reality, he was called Moriarty, just like Sherlock had said.”

 

“We have been looking into the matter ever since you mentioned him to M. But we couldn’t find a lot…” – Confessed a sheepish R, blushing.

 

“Don’t worry about it; I knew you wouldn’t find information on him. He was a master of manipulation; hell, he deceived everyone on his trial. All the jury, the judge, the police, the press… literally everyone. He only had one objective: to kill Sherlock. He was so focused on it; he didn’t even realize in time that in the end, this would be his own downfall as well. Now they’re both dead and my brother died with the world thinking he is a killer of an innocent man and that he was lying for years about being a genius in deductions.” – Finished Q sadly.

 

“We’ll help you clear his name, Q. People should know the truth.”

 

“Thanks, Eve.”

 

“Besides: you can’t fake what he did! He knew everything about everyone just by looking at us. We all experienced it firsthand. Nobody will make us believe it wasn’t real.”

 

“Thanks, Peter. That means a lot.”

 

After a bit of persuasion, they agreed to let him drink a tea and remain in HQ just a bit longer. He knew his minions had been commissioned with the task of watching him like particularly determined hawks but he honestly didn’t mind. It was nice knowing they cared.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

Q had been struggling first with a bowtie then – having given up on it as hopeless – a normal tie that morning because his hands had been (and still were) shaking so much. In the end, he had decided to just leave it. He was going to wear a coat anyway. But as soon as he arrived to Holmes Manor, Mycroft insisted in a no-nonsense manner that he put on at least a necktie because ‘That’s what you do when you bury your brother. I should know: I’ve done it once already.’

 

With that statement, Q was forcibly led upstairs and into his oldest brother’s bedroom to choose a tie for him. The teenager – admittedly very childishly so – decided right then and there to deliberately choose the ugliest one he could find. Sadly, this plan was quickly falling to pieces, because just one look at Mycroft’s closet told him that his brother didn’t own anything close to ugly. Of course he wouldn’t; he should have known. As a matter of fact, everything Mycroft owned was absolutely simple, elegant and low-key. Just perfect for every occasion. Boring to death. He didn’t even have one single comfortable cardigan.

 

So, the boy just stood there, stubbornly refusing to even consider any of the items of clothing. And there were many; at least twenty different ties were hanging neatly on one side of the cupboard. In the end, Mycroft gave up with an exasperated sigh, chose a navy tie for him and tied it perfectly around his neck.

 

“See, little brother, now you look very appropriate.”

 

“I look like those monkeys in your club.”

 

“Well, then you’re a very handsome monkey. You should wear elegant clothes more often.”

 

“Shut up, Myc. Let’s get this over with so that we can continue with the plan as soon as possible. We have more important things to do than play theater.”

 

“I agree. Let’s go then.”

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

The funeral was a subdued affair. There weren’t a great many people present but it was all right. Sherlock hated any kind of gathering anyway; he thought it was like a sect.

 

Q had insisted that none of his friends accompany him: he had told his MI6 family he needed to be with Mycroft and that he’d be all right. They hadn’t been happy about it but in the end, they had had to relent. They never could say no to the teenager. Tanner had been the most difficult to convince of course, closely followed by M. It had taken two hours and the teenager was tired, angry about having to wear a suit and just generally irritated about this whole thing.

 

At the beginning he had really planned on standing next to Mycroft during the whole ceremony but after a while he got tired of having to listen to comments like ‘It seems it’s customary to have to bury one’s brother in pouring rain’ or ‘It’s funny how now it’s you here next to me on a funeral for Sherlock when last time it was Sherlock with me and you were the one being held a ceremony for’. So the boy abandoned the safety of his big brother’s umbrella (‘I knew it was a good idea to keep it. It’s quite useful for special occasions like these.’), and went to stand next to Mrs. Hudson instead. The elderly lady was sobbing silently and leaning on DI Lestrade for support.

 

Afterward, when the rain had stopped falling, most guests came up to the brothers to shake hands and offer their condolences.

 

A big, burly but friendly-looking man, who had introduced himself as Mike Stamford, explained to them with watery eyes that he had been good friends with Sherlock and that the middle Holmes had visited the labs of St. Bartholomew's Hospital a lot to use it for his investigations. He assured them he still believed in Sherlock and would never forget him. They also learned he was the one who had initially introduced Sherlock to John. That made both of them very grateful to the man and Q made a mental note to assure a salary raise to him for his teaching position. It would be a simple hacking job, not much of an effort…

 

A greying bearded, long-haired Italian man named Angelo stepped up after Mike and nearly tore Q’s right arm out of its socket while shaking his hand vigorously.

 

“Unbelievable! Just can’t accept it, no sir. It’s horrible! That poor lad. He cleared my name once ya know.”

 

“You were in jail though, Mr. Angelo.” – Observed Q while rubbing his shoulder with a wince. – “You’ve got a prison tattoo there.”

 

“Ah, yeah. I was accused of a double murder but our star-detective cleared me by proving I was on the other side of London, stealing a car. I got brought in for that… But it’s still better than murder, ain’t it? Anyway, a good fellow if I say so myself. A pity he had to die so young… Ya’re both welcome in my restaurant anytime. On the house.”

 

Next came two people whom neither Holmes had ever expected to see on Sherlock’s funeral: Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan. Both swore they never ever wanted that to happen and that they didn’t think Sherlock was a fraud.

 

“Aren’t you the ones who used to call him a freak all the time?” – Asked Q, tired of this ridiculous theater and wanting nothing more than to go home to his cats and sleep for at least a week. (Not that it would happen with Sherlock traveling the next day but it was good to at least fantasize about it…) He surely had better things to do than listen to rubbish.

 

“We’re sorry” – Was all the teary-eyed Donovan said.

 

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes. And I’m not afraid to express it. You’ll see.” – Declared Anderson and then they both left.

 

“Thank God they’re gone. I can’t stand them.” – Commented Q under his breath so that only Mycroft could hear it. The older man was surprisingly calm about the whole ordeal which he had claimed came from ‘experience’. The boy rolled his eyes at that, recognizing the mockery for what it was.

 

“Are you ever going to stop reminding me of that?” – It was really getting old now…

 

“Not likely.”

 

“Just fantastic.”

 

His dark mood wasn’t improved by the fact that it was the first time he had ever seen his parents’ graves. He had honestly planned to come one day to visit them but never in his life had he expected it to happen that way…

 

He noticed his own headstone was missing.

 

“What did you do with it?” – He asked, indicating to its place. The plants were still much sparser where it had stood, apparently until quite recently.

 

“I had it reused for Sherlock’s.”

 

“Jesus, that’s morbid on so many levels...”

 

“Well, little brother, haven’t you heard how recycling is important? We have to protect the environment. I didn’t think you’d mind; you don’t need it anymore after all.”

 

Q shook his head.

 

“That’s just gross.”

 

Mrs. Hudson cried for five minutes straight on his shoulders while he patted her back awkwardly, looking around for help that didn’t come. Mycroft just looked at him with something akin to mirth in his eyes that nobody else but him would have noticed of course.

 

The next to come to him was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

 

“Benedict, I’m so sorry. I just… Oh, God. I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s all right.”

 

“No, it’s not. I was accusing him… I wanted to arrest him… What if I was part of the reason for…? Oh, God!”

 

“No, you weren’t. Listen: you were one of the few people whom he trusted entirely and for whom he would have done anything. You were his _friend_ even if he would have never admitted it.”

 

“Some friend I was… Trust---” – He burst out in tears and the teenager again wished for his new apartment’s sanctuary. He didn’t know how to deal with this situation!

 

Molly was shaking hard when it was her turn in the queue.

 

“I… I… I didn’t know he had a little brother.”

 

“It’s okay, not many have known it.”

 

“You look like him. Your dark, curly hair and expressive eyes and---“ – She sobbed then tried to gather herself enough to be able to continue. – “He had beautiful eyes, too. His were blue though and yours are green.”

 

Q blushed and ran his hand through his still wet hair. The rain had only stopped pouring around half an hour ago.

 

“But you probably already knew that. Does he--- I mean… Did he have glasses too?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“I don’t either. He had very sharp eyes… I didn’t mean to say your eyes are not sharp enough!”

 

“It’s okay; I didn’t understand it that way, don’t worry.”

 

“Thanks. Because I’m sure your eyes are very sharp. I mean…”

 

“Actually, I’m blind as a bat without glasses. Have been since I was 5. I’ve had time to get used to it.” – He was sure he’d have needed glasses even sooner than that but it had taken time to convince Mycroft it wasn’t the too dim light in his room that had lately started to make it difficult for him to read… Also, Sherlock had insisted glasses made him look even geekier than anything else. Yep. His brothers were just lovely.

 

“Oh. Sorry. I don’t usually babble that much… Well, not always… Ahm… You also have the same posture. But you’re much skinnier and a lot smaller. I never thought anyone could be skinnier than him and still be healthy… You’re healthy, right?”

 

Really, where was Mycroft when you needed him?

 

“You also look much younger.”

 

“Yeah, by 19 years.”

 

“Oh! That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

 

“I suppose…”

 

“Sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Molly Hooper. I work in St. Bart’s. I was the one who got Moriarty’s body. I took great pleasure in cutting him up…”

 

Jesus…

 

“They didn’t let me see Sherlock’s…”

 

Somebody do _something_ … Anything. Please.

 

“You most definitely didn’t want to hear that, did you? I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say…”

 

“It’s fine. I’m sorry too. You’ve lost a good friend.” – Well, as if anyone but Doctor Watson would consider Sherlock a _good_ friend…

 

“Yes…” – With that she walked away to talk to Mycroft who had miraculously reappeared from wherever he had been just moments before instead of helping his poor little brother out in his misery. He was totally unaffected by the daggers Q glared at him over the heads of the guests.

 

They spent another half an hour, talking to everyone and eying the entire homeless network from afar with just a bit of wariness, but all that time, John didn’t speak to any of them at all. Not one word. He remained standing in front of the grave long after everyone had left. For some reason, he was also using his cane again.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

Two days later Q was standing in front of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock – who was by now in Switzerland looking for clues about Moriarty’s web – had asked him (actually: nearly _begged_ ) to come and talk to John.

 

The man had spoken to the headstone after the funeral. Sherlock had heard it of course and according to him, it had been a very disconcerting experience. He was worried about his friend and unable to come to his aid himself.

 

The teenager had promised to do his best and so here he was now. Pity he didn’t have a clue what to do. In a way, he was even shittier in emotions than any of his brothers because while they at least always managed to keep their calm, Q – especially recently – often found himself a useless crying and/or raging mess. He hoped it was just something that came with being a teenager and not a permanent part of his personality.

 

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it and as soon as she recognized the boy as the youngest Holmes, hugged him and ushered him inside.

 

“Oh, darling, you’re a skeleton. You’re even smaller than your brother… I don’t get it; what is it with you all starving yourselves? Would you like to eat something, dear? I can make you anything you want: sandwiches, cookies…”

 

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson but I’ve already eaten. How are you?”

 

“I’m… dealing. But that silly man upstairs… he’s not.”

 

“Is he all right?”

 

“No. He’s leaving.”

 

“What do you mean by ‘leaving’?”

 

“He says he can’t afford the flat alone and is moving out. I don’t know where. I’m worried about him! He isn’t eating either…”

 

“I’m going to talk to him.”

 

“Do that, please. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

Upstairs he tried to knock but honestly hadn’t expected – and of course didn’t get – an answer. So he just announced he was going in instead then proceeded to do just that.

 

Then he halted abruptly and gaped.

 

“What the hell has happened here?”

 

The room was a mess! Not even Sherlock had let it be that untidy ever. And that was saying a lot.

 

“Oh, Benedict. I’ve just packed the last of my things. It was not easy getting them together. Sherlock---“ – He took a shaky breath. – “Sherlock’s things were everywhere. Even in my room. In my closets… I don’t understand. And there’s a severed head in the fridge. It has started smelling already; you should probably get rid of it soon or else Mrs. Hudson will get a heart-attack when she comes to investigate the source and finds it.”

 

“Why did you need to pack your things?”

 

“Because I’m moving out.”

 

“Why would you want to do that? You like living here.”

 

“I used to like, yes. Now though… Things have changed. May I have this?” – He asked absentmindedly, holding Sherlock’s deerstalker hat lovingly in his hands.

 

“Why, of course, it’s your home too. You can have everything you want.”

 

“Thanks, this will suffice. It will remind me of happier times…” – He carefully folded the hat and placed it into a bag, then zipped it up when he was ready with that task.

 

“Look, if you’re worried about the rent… I was planning on keeping the flat anyway. I don’t want to throw Sherlock’s things out but I don’t know where else to store them.”

 

“You’re going to keep a flat for the things of a dead man? Why?”

 

“Who knows, they could still be needed someday…”

 

“I don’t want charity, Benedict. I’m not stupid: I KNOW very well that you can store everything in Holmes Manor. It’s certainly big enough.”

 

“It’s not charity. The things will remain here whether you yourself do or not. This is Sherlock’s home more than Holmes Manor ever.”

 

“But he’s dead and not coming back.”

 

“Regardless of circumstances… It’s sentimentality. I’m sadly not as immune to it as my brothers.”

 

“Brother.”

 

“What?”

 

“You have only one brother left now.”

 

Q felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

 

“Oh… It’s… really nice of you to point it out.”

 

“Sherlock always said to be frank. It’s the truth.”

 

Q didn’t know what to say to that so he chose to have a look around the flat instead. There was the smiley face on the wall Sherlock had drawn there then shot at once in boredom, just above the couch he had sometimes spent days only lying on, doing absolutely nothing but brooding. In front of it, there was the gaping hole in the mantelpiece where Sherlock had once stabbed it with a knife. There was the skull. And his violin… Q touched the latter very gently; as if afraid it could break into a thousand small pieces if he applied any pressure to it. He remembered listening to Sherlock play his music (sometimes just produce screeching sounds that nobody else could bear hearing but him) as a child and falling asleep comforted by it. He had always felt safe and protected if he knew his brothers were near.

 

“He did it for you.” – Blurted John suddenly, cruelly waking the boy from his reminiscing daydreams.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“He always used to be somewhat obsessed with Moriarty but nothing like the maniac he became after the attack on you. He wouldn’t talk about anything else anymore but how to take revenge for it. How he wouldn’t put up with anyone hurting his little brother. How Moriarty had finally gone too far.” – Q just stared at him without showing any kind of reaction to the information. This only served to further anger the man. – “He spent his last days researching and investigating. He confronted him when he was playing Richard Brook. He knew nobody would believe him. He knew and he still did it. For you.”

 

“It was as much for you and his other friends as for me.”

 

“You have no idea, Benedict.” – Spat the doctor with venom.

 

“Really?”

 

“Really. You know nothing. You went and faked your own death. Then you came back but remained distant, not letting him get close to you. You didn’t even want him to call you on your name, for God’s sake.”

 

“My name doesn’t exist anymore. It’s for security’s sake. To avoid things like the attack by Moriarty, for example. Our family has enemies.”

 

“You didn’t tell him about your life. He had to find out about your status in MI6 by faking an official inspection!” – He accused.

 

The teenager didn’t try to deny it.

 

“Yes. I didn’t want them to know about my independent life. I’m an adult now.”

 

“That’s your favorite phrase, isn’t it? You are an adult on paper, nowhere else, boy. You don’t seem to realize that being an adult means responsibility as well, not just rights. Duty to the family for example.”

 

“How do you know I’m not doing my ‘duty’?”

 

“You avoided talking to him most of the time!” – John shouted.

 

“That’s how we are. Never presume to know us, Doctor Watson, and don’t believe you have the right to pass judgement. There are several things _you_ don’t know.” – Warned Q, getting gradually angrier every minute.

 

“I know enough. I know you hurt him constantly. How could you believe he didn’t care about what happened?”

 

“I…” – His cheeks were on fire from anger. Or maybe from shame? It was admittedly difficult to tell at that precise moment. – “I don’t think you want to continue this conversation. Besides, I’m not here to argue with you. I just attended my brother’s funeral if you remember.” – It was true at least.

 

“I will never be able to forget it, I can assure you, because I attended that same funeral for my very best friend.”

 

Q took a deep breath and counted to twenty. When his anger had lessened somewhat, he continued as if nothing had happened.

 

“So will you stay here?”

 

“No. I can’t bear it. Everything here reminds me of him. It’s torturous.”

 

“And where are you going?”

 

“I rented a room in Hackney.”

 

“You must be kidding me!”

 

“Why? Because it’s not as luxurious as your own place?”

 

“Doctor Watson, please, answer me this: do you have a problem with me personally? Or are you just grieving and taking it out on me as the closest available person?”

 

“A little of both I guess. I’m sorry, Benedict, but right now I can’t bear talking to you. You look like him too much. You’re too close to the happenings. It’s just… I can’t.”

 

“So you blame me?”

 

“Partly.”

 

“Good to know.”

 

“Sherlock taught me to always be honest. He knows… _knew_ … everything anyway so there was no use trying to lie to him." – The doctor squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

 

Q felt very sorry for him and absolutely miserable about what they were doing. The anger – though for other reasons than what Doctor Watson thought – was actually totally warranted and therefore he couldn’t defend himself against it. He didn’t even want to.

 

“Well, like you just said: I’m too much like him. So I know you’re not thinking clearly right now. I will leave you alone – for now. But the matter is not dropped yet. You see: once you get into contact with the Holmes family, it’s for life. Mycroft and I won’t let you waste away.”

 

“It’s over, Benedict. This is the end. Ende, finito.” – He picked up his bag from the floor and with a last glance around the place, he walked out of the room and – with difficulty, balancing his bag and his cane at the same time – down to the entrance corridor.

 

Q called after him from the top of the stairs before the man could disappear onto the street.

 

“What if it’s not though? What if this is only the beginning?” – He asked desperately.

 

“It is, Benedict: the beginning of the end.” – And with a sad wave to a crying Mrs. Hudson, he left 221B with the intent never to return.


End file.
